When hunger, anger, sleeplessness, and sheer stubborness are combined in one place, meet the perfect storm--my daughter, Regan. Four years old and already legendary in family lore and local history. Here she is at Folly Beach, SC before a meltdown. Cute and sweet looking, right? Read on, non-believers!
The first PTO of the year saw Ray stuffing herself with cheese pizza and apple juice. She sat through the first speech, ran to Daddy while he was starting the second speech and kicked the table during the third. Hurricane warnings were issued when her little jaw clenched after I refused to give her another cookie.
After settling down in Wes' first grade classroom to discuss the "new" math, the storm surge started. She plowed down a computer keyboard and literally blew past a poor grandmother almost toppling her while she admired her grandson's drawing.
I scooped her up just in time to avoid a collision with blackboard. Kicking and screaming (her, not me), we picked gingerly past the crowd while Wesley slunk out in shame, holding his sister's Bob the Builder bag of Hot Wheels. The first hurdle was the teacher's desk. It lost. Ray 1, School property 3 (remember the computer and table).
I saw daylight! The door was pushed open by eager teachers silently begging me to hurry before the full force of Hurricane Regan hit. The door decorations didn't make it. Like a vicious twister spawned by hurricanes, Ray's legs whirled dangerously, tearing the crepe paper from the door along with the children's name tags.
The tirade against "Mean Mommy" lasted for a full 90 minutes. I'd rather have a ninety minute mammogram than put up with her.
After ninety minutes of pulling, tugging, hoisting and generally dragging Ray to bed, she wailed, "I want to be good." Good at what? Disaster zones, Alien invasion sites, Armaggedon? 'Cause, girl, you'd put Signourney Weaver on the ropes.
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